


A Nice Little Strawberry Festival

by second_skin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Wholesome fun. That's what road trips are all about, right? Just some nice old-fashioned good times together.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice Little Strawberry Festival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceria/gifts).



> _A silly little lump of Coul for ceria about Clint and Steve getting a little too close for Phil's comfort. The muse turned this toward comedy, I'm afraid, but I hope you like it._
> 
> _The story was inspired by Phil's smile as he remembers a little strawberry festival in the "FZZT" episode of_ Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I think this is why he was smiling.

“How much bonus pay am I getting for this, Sir?”

 “Very funny, Romanov. There’s no bonus pay. You’re on a road trip with your friends. You’re having fun. Just keep your eyes on all of them and don’t let anybody go off the rails.” Nick’s voice is impatient, but Natasha doesn’t care. She hates this nanny gig. But most of all, she's pissed that Clint has been flirting shamelessly with Steve all day.

“I didn’t even get to drive. I had to sit in the backseat with Phil while Clint and Steve took turns driving Lola because Phil's still not cleared by his doctors to drive. I hate the fucking backseat. And Coulson won’t even speak to me because he thinks this was my idea.”

 

“Okay, I owe you. And I admit that this wasn’t one of my most brilliant plans. But how was I supposed to know Rogers would get all moonstruck around Barton—that potato-face, sarcastic cynic? Just doesn’t seem like Cap's type, you know? I can’t monitor everybody’s sex life, Romanov—much as you know I’d enjoy that. I’m hanging up now. I appreciate your help and discretion.”

Natasha pockets her phone and sees Phil limping toward her with two strawberry lemonades in hand. And she knows they’re not spiked with vodka, so nothing to look forward to there. She doesn’t bother smiling at Phil. He’s not happy. She’s not happy. Fury’s not happy. She finds herself wishing for an attack of alien drones or cyber-robots right here and now, just to take the edge off the personal drama.

They find a shady spot near a charming gazebo and sit down with their drinks to sulk.

From this vantage point they can see most of the games and rides and keep an eye on Steve and Clint and their sickening bromance. This whole stupid trip to the Wrigley, Pennsylvania Strawberry Haze Days was Fury’s idea, but Natasha blames herself too. She’s the one who told him she thought both Cap and Coulson seemed pretty down lately.

Phil is slowly recovering from his untimely death, but hasn't really gotten his mojo back. _Still_ hasn't made his move on Clint, either—and that is driving everybody in the betting pool insane.

Steve, on the other hand, has been getting more and more homesick and more tired of twenty-first-century New York and its most unwholesome aspects. He keeps talking about the good old days of sandlot baseball and bobby socks and soda shops. Stuff that kind of makes Natasha gag, if she's going to be honest about it. Which she isn't--to his face, at least.

So Fury decided to kill a few birds with one stone, to use a violent metaphor. He ordered the four of them to take a weekend trip to the world’s most wholesome, old-fashioned place: Wrigley, Pennsylvania. They’d enjoy the Strawberry Festival, he assured her.

“Who doesn’t like motherfucking strawberries, Romanov? They're sweet, they're tart, they're a goddamn orgy in your mouth.”

Steve would get his fill of the simple pleasures and Clint and Phil would have a little alone time on the paddleboats or ferris wheel. Fury was sure a little roll in the hay would follow. If anything could cure Phil’s post-demise depression, it was Clint Barton's significant manly gifts.

 

Who could have predicted that this flirt-fest between Clint and Steve would screw up the whole plan?

 

Natasha sips her lemonade and watches Phil’s face getting redder, the pulse in his neck throbbing. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d say the man was going to explode any minute. But Phil Coulson’s self-control is legendary. So Natasha has faith that he’ll keep it together long enough for them to get through the day and get home. Probably.

They watch as Clint and Steve giggle together and compete at the carnival games, drawing a gasping crowd at each stop they make. Clint doesn’t just pop three balloons with three darts to win an adorable little stuffed monkey. No, he has to pop _all_ the balloons. All 200 of them. The kid running the game is speechless as he pulls down the 7-foot stuffed dinosaur hanging at the top of the tent and hands it to Clint.

“Wow. Mister. Never thought anybody would win this one. You need help strapping that to your car?”

Clint is struck dumb. Clearly, he didn’t think about what he’d do with his prize while he flinging all those darts. He scans the crowd and his eyes land on a six-year-old boy who has been squealing and clapping. He shoves the dinosaur at the boy’s father, who gives Clint the evil eye.

“Really, dude? The thing will barely fit through the door of our apartment . . .” But it’s too late, the boy is jumping for joy and the carnival helper guy in the clown suit is hauling the dinosaur toward the parking lot, along with a giant ball of twine.

When it’s Cap’s turn to show off, he nearly knocks down two game tents, hurling five  baseballs in rapid succession at a pyramid of wooden bowling pins. The baseballs fly through the pins and into the next booth, where the face-painter topples off his chair and lands face-first in his array of reds, greens, and blues. Clint can’t stop laughing and Steve can’t stop apologizing.

By the time they get through the rest of the games and jump on the ferris wheel together, Natasha thinks this might as well be a movie montage, with a Carly Simon song playing in the background. If they start licking each other's ice cream cones, Natasha is seriously going to vomit.

But the situation goes from bad to worse on the wheel. They're getting all touchy feely—which is killing Phil. His all-time hero mancrush and his achingly serious I-want-to-get-in-your-leather-pants _real_ crush falling all over each other. There is a lot for Agent Coulson to discuss in therapy tomorrow.

After a few minutes watching something that looks a lot like extreme fraternization, Natasha may have to spend some quality time with a therapist too. She’s not sure it will build the right team dynamic if she can’t stop imagining Barton and Rogers naked together, because . . . just reasons. A lot of glistening, strong, hard, pretty reasons. She shifts a little on her chair and tries to snap out of it.

“Phil, Clint is just trying to show Steve a good time---wholesome fun, right? I’m sure there’s nothing more going on.” She wishes they could both just stop staring at them.

 

But then they both see it happening, and Natasha curses under her breath. They get off the ferris wheel, and Steve’s arm is over Clint’s shoulders, which is bad enough, but then his hand travels down to Clint’s waist. They’re laughing at some joke—some hilarious macho hero shit, probably. And without warning, Steve’s hand is on Clint’s ass. And is he actually fondling him? Pinching him? In public?

 

Natasha looks at Phil and sees some little capillaries popping in the corners of his eyes. He hands her his lemonade, then leaps to his feet. She watches him march/limp through the festival like a man possessed, like a soldier striding toward the battlefront. She doesn’t want to think this—but he actually looks a little like Loki right now, except with less hair. And damn it, now she’s picturing Coulson naked too. With naked Loki. And they’re both wearing helmets. And it is really hot.

 

Yeah, she is going to have to talk to the psych team tomorrow.

 

Phil marches across the fields of Strawberry Days crafters. Past the ugly strawberry sweater contest, past the strawberry jam, strawberry syrup, strawberry barbecue. He walks past the the stage where they’e putting on the Wrigley Town History play about Quaker strawberry farmers and Mennonite whipped cream makers living in harmony. He goes past the rows of needlepoint displays with not-that-witty quotes about strawberries and past the Strawberry Shortcake cos players.

 She knows she should follow him, stop him from making a huge mistake. But she’s getting a little sweaty and excited, imagining a naked wrestling match among Clint, Steve, and Phil, so she’s just going to watch and wait. She buys a bottle of strawberry wine from the vendor and climbs up the nearest tree for a better view.

 

Her phone rings. Fury again. “How’s it going?”

“Uh . . . can’t really tell yet, Sir. I’ll call you back.”

“Romanov, what’s wrong?”

“Steve has his hand on Clint’s butt and . . .”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? I’ll send a strike force.”

“Just wait. Trust me. It may be okay.”

“I’ve seen Phil when he’s jealous, Romanov, and believe me, it’s going to get ugly and violent. I don’t want to be filling out paperwork from now ‘til next year because road tripping idiots destroyed half of eastern Pennsylvania. None of those guys know their own strength . . .”

Natasha swallows a gulp of the wine and assesses the situation.

 

“It’s going to be okay, Fury. Pie. He’s taking it out on the pie.”

 Phil is pulling some bills out of his wallet and talking with the old lady at the pie booth. He’s got one  strawberry with meringue on top and one flaky, delicious-looking strawberry rhubarb. At least it’s going to be a tasty fight.  

 

Clint and Steve are walking arm-in-arm toward Phil, giggling .  Very quickly, the look on Phil’s face and the pie in each hand register with Steve. He's seen enough Three Stooges movies to know what comes next. Clint seems oblivious until the second after the throw.

Fury wants a play-by-play, but the action is too fast for Natasha to keep up.

“How’s his aim?”

“Surprisingly good, I’d say,” says Natasha, laughing and snorting. Clint and Steve stumble around blindly, trying to wipe gobs of gooey red filling from their eyes.

Steve runs to the pie stand, throws down his wallet and grabs four pies at once, like the super soldier that he is. Phil ducks like a ninja and the pies hit random bystanders, starting the domino effect of collateral damage Fury anticipated.

The festival erupts into an all-out food fight, but Natasha steps out of the fray. There is no way she's getting strawberry goo on her best leather jacket. She's also busy trying to imagine Steve and Phil and Clint licking strawberry jam off each others nipples.

In helmets.

While Loki watches.

 

The good news is that Phil has pinned Clint against the booth with the pinball machines and is snogging the life out of him. Natasha never knew the sight of a man nibbling bits of pastry off another man’s face could tip her over the edge, but the delicious throbbing between her legs is undeniable.

Within an hour, an extraction team is putting a humiliated Steve into a helicopter and sending out a search-and-rescue squad trying to find Phil and Clint. Natasha keeps her mouth shut because she wants Phil to have a chance to finish giving Clint a thorough and masterful fucking to teach him a lesson.

No more crackpot schemes to make Coulson jealous. This is not some rom com, it's real life, and Clint needs to get that message any way that Coulson would like to deliver it.

Natasha will lead the search-and-rescue guys astray for another hour. She promised Phil she'd give him at least that long, and she always keep her promises. In exchange, she’ll get to drive Lola home.

 

Her phone buzzes again.

“Romanov, you are the worst babysitter in the agency. I am never trusting you with a mission like this again. You are filling out some serious fucking paperwork when you get back, and I may have to put you all in front of the disciplinary committee. Do you know the PR implications of this? The cost in shampoo alone is going to be astronomical!”

 

“I might be able to get you some pictures of Barton and Coulson doing it.”

Fury pauses his tirade for a minute. His breathing is just slightly heavier and faster when he finally replies. “See what you can do, and we’ll talk.”

“Roger that.”

“This is why you’re my favorite, Romanov.”

“I know, Sir. I know.”


End file.
